


hold me again, don't count mistakes

by insunshine



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, Marriage, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 03:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13355946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine
Summary: Lovett pops out his left earbud and says, “I refuse to get involved in your domestics.” He doesn’t even bother turning away from his monitors.





	hold me again, don't count mistakes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gdgdbaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/gifts).



> A million thanks to @gigantic and @asmallbluedot for shaping my dialogue, fixing my comma problem and listening to me scream. Also to Cold War Kids' "Miracle Mile" for the title.

When Tommy gets really embarrassed, his cheeks flush red. He always looks pretty young, but never more so than when his cheeks are that dull, dusky pink. His poker face is impressive, but after so many years of close cohabitation, Jon can always tell when there’s something that he wants.

He was on a Skype call with a potential sponsor up until a few minutes ago, and now he’s standing in the doorway of Little Marco showing something to Elijah on his phone and gesticulating wildly. Every couple of seconds, his gaze flicks over, meeting Jon’s eyes and he’s getting progressively redder.

“What’s going on with him?” Jon asks Lovett quietly. 

Lovett pops out his left earbud and says, “I refuse to get involved in your domestics.” He doesn’t even bother turning away from his monitors. 

“What are you talking about?” Jon asks. His back hurts. His feet feel like they’re four times their normal size. 

“You’re married,” Lovett says, which has been his answer for everything since he officiated the wedding. 

He’s rolling his eyes, but that’s nothing new. Jon knows his face, too. The downward tilt of his mouth is a dead giveaway, especially when his eyes are shifting like that. He’s grinning, but of course he’s trying to hide it, has to pretend to be a brat at least 85% of the time. 

“I am,” Jon agrees, can’t help preening. It’s not a surprise anymore. It’s been a couple months. A little less than half a year, just about, but it’s still thrilling, being married. Being a husband. Being —

“You ready to go?” Tommy asks, voice carrying across the room. He whistles softly for the dog, shrugging into his windbreaker one-armed.

“Yeah,” Jon agrees, shoving Lovett’s shoulder in goodbye. 

“Rude,” Lovett says, but he doesn’t shove back.

Growing up in Massachusetts should have prepared him for any kind of weather, but even though it’s in the low 60s, with the sun behind the clouds, it’s fucking cold. Jon stifles a shiver in his fleece, trying not to let his teeth chatter.

“Cold?” Tommy asks, and immediately he’s wrapping his arm around Jon’s shoulders, tugging him close. He smells familiar, like the Dove soap in their house, and a tiny splash of his aftershave. Woodsy. It’s a scent Jon would know anywhere.

“Nah, I’m fine,” Jon says, but that doesn’t stop him from snuggling in. 

They’re… kind of celebrities. Minor celebrities. Sometimes they get stopped on the street by excited Friends of The Pod, but mostly people are respectful in LA. Either that, or it really is Tom Hanks buying groceries from their Whole Foods and nobody cares who Jon is in comparison. Still, marrying your co-host is kind of newsworthy, and even though they’ve mostly kept their personal life under wraps since leaving the White House, it’s still out there. Public record. Jon hasn’t checked his Wikipedia page in a while, but he knows what it’ll say. 

A few days into the honeymoon, they’d released some shots from the wedding on Crooked’s Instagram, but aside from that it’s been business as usual. Business-partners as usual. He and Tommy have never kissed during a stream or a video or a show, and as far as he can tell, Lovett hasn’t stopped flirting with either of them during the ad reads. 

Still. Still.

“That’s a serious face,” Tommy says, his voice soft in Jon’s ear. 

Jon shrugs, still a little chilly where Tommy isn’t touching him. He can make out the car about a block ahead and sighs, relieved. He’s not that far along, this isn’t anywhere near as bad as it could possibly get, but dammit, his back hurts. He thinks Leo might be able to tell, because he doesn’t tug as hard on his leash as Jon knows he can, seemingly content to walk at their pace.

“Just thinking,” he says, instead of voicing the complaint out loud. When Tommy meets his gaze, the flush is still there, high on his cheeks, crowding around his pale eyebrows and the almost invisible frown lines around his mouth. 

Just looking at him makes Jon smile. 

“What?” Tommy says, grinning back at him. He unlocks the car, pressing the automatic starter and coming around to Jon’s side to open his door.

“I can still open my own doors, Tom,” Jon argues, for the sake of it, lifting Leo onto his lap. They’ve had this conversation roughly thirty times. Maybe even thirty times this week.

Tommy rolls his eyes and says, “Yeah, well, as long as I have hands to do it, I’m always going to want to open your fucking door, Favs. I don’t think you’re any weaker for being the, um.”

He fumbles the rest of the sentence, voice muffled as Jon tugs closed the passenger side door, and pulls the seatbelt across his stomach. 

“—just because you’re the _carrier_ doesn’t mean I’m feminizing you,” Tommy finishes as he slides into the driver’s seat. 

He slides his shades down off the crown of his head as he checks his mirrors and pulls into traffic. He’s so pale, barely catches any color from the sun at all even though they both run a couple miles a day, and just looking at him makes Jon’s pulse beat faster. Probably a good idea that they bit the bullet and got married, then. 

“I’m really glad,” Jon blurts, watching as Tommy contemplates turning his eyes away from the traffic to look at him.

“You’re glad you’re the...carrier?” His ears are red too, the flush spreading down past the moles and freckles on the back of his neck. Jon has mapped each and every one of them with his tongue so many times over the past thirteen years, but every time he gets to do it again, it still feels new.

“I mean,” he says, trying to arrange his thoughts coherently. “Sure. I don’t mind it.” 

“Ringing endorsement,” Tommy says, but he’s laughing, reaching across the console to grip Jon’s hand briefly while traffic is at a standstill. 

Even with the office so close to their place, it still takes forever to get home. There are tricks to avoid the traffic, but Jon likes having set hours. Having that structure is probably the only reason none of them have lost their minds in the last year. 

“What are you thinking about for dinner?” he asks, tugging his phone out of the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie when he feels it buzz. Lovett is still in the office, and according to his increasingly frantic slacks, so hungry he’s about to chew off his own arm. “Lovett is considering self-cannibalism.”

“As if he could be that disciplined,” Tommy says, a little mean. He doesn’t mean to laugh, but Jon can’t help himself. 

“Should I tell him that?” he asks. 

“Yes, obviously,” Tommy immediately agrees. “What were you thinking?”

“I asked you first,” Jon says, and can’t control his grin at the way Tommy’s own smile broadens. 

Not all of marriage is this easy. Jon knows that, as well as he knows that starting a business with his ex-colleagues and current boyfriend, while none of them were living in the same place at the same time, shouldn’t have been easy. But it _has_ been. Lovett gives him shit all the time for stealing everyone else’s luck, but Jon’s never been more acutely aware of it before now.

“I want Chinese,” Tommy says, cutting through Jon’s thoughts, which is acceptable, because suddenly, all Jon wants to do is eat 800 different types of potstickers. “You want to Postmates it? It’ll probably get to the house around the same time we do.”

“Good call,” Jon agrees, tapping open the app on his phone and putting in their order. 

He takes a screencap and adds a cry face emoji, sending it to Lovett in the slack group chat. He’s still complaining about his hunger, as though there aren’t several cheap, tasty food options within walking distance of his current location.

“Don’t egg him on. You know how he gets,” Tommy says, flicking the turn signal and changing lanes. “He’ll just break into the house when he gets out of work and eat all our leftovers again.” 

“At least we aren’t contributing to more food waste in this county, right?” Jon asks, pleased when Tommy meets his eyes again and laughs. 

Jon has loved Tommy for almost as long as he’s known how to love anybody; loves every part of him, every way he knows how to, but that laugh might top every single one of his lists. 

“I love your laugh,” he says, because he can’t help it, and because being pregnant and married and 36 means he gets to say shit like that if he wants to. He reaches out, pressing his fingers to Tommy’s face and tracing the smile lines around his eyes.

“Stop,” Tommy says, but he turns his face briefly, pressing a kiss to the center of Jon’s palm. 

His cheeks are a vibrant, vivid red, and Jon wants to press his mouth over every single spot of color. Wants to make Tommy go red everywhere, even the spots that no one else gets to see. ...especially the spots no one else gets to see.

“Oh,” he says, can’t stop his grin again, feeling the way it spreads slowly across his mouth. He couldn’t stop it now if he tried.

“‘Oh’ what?” Tommy asks, finally turning onto their street. “Christ, why does this drive feel longer every fucking day?”

“Traffic?” Jon muses as they park, unclicking his belt and hopping out of the car before Tommy can reach him. Leo had fallen asleep during the drive, but he’s alert now, circling Jon’s feet impatiently. 

“You’d think they’d have invented teleportation by 2018,” Tommy grumbles as he grabs their stuff from the backseat. Jon wants to kiss him all over again.

He wants to, and they’re alone now, with nothing pressing to do that he can think of, so he says, “Let’s go inside,” and holds his hand out, suppressing a shiver that has nothing to do with the temperature when Tommy slides their palms together without hesitating. 

Tommy locks the door and toes off his shoes, tugs off his windbreaker and hooks it on the coat rack behind the door. He reaches his hand out for Jon’s fleece, and Jon hands it over, pulling off his button-up too.

“Uh, woah,” Tommy says, but Jon doesn’t miss the way his eyes dart from Jon’s face to his torso and back again. He’s far enough along that it’s noticeable, but not so far along that his clothes won’t fit anymore. “Getting comfortable?”

“Did you want something?” Jon asks, starting on his belt. Tommy’s eyes are on his hands. Jon can hear each and every one of his ragged breaths. 

“Jon,” he says, a high, rusty whine. “The food’s coming.” 

He laughs without meaning to. “Were you planning on inviting our delivery person to join in? Sorry. You should know I’m not into that kind of thing by now.”

Tommy’s eyes snap closed. Jon kicks off his sneakers and shimmies off his jeans, folding them over the back of the couch. 

“We’re so fucking lucky we have someone come in and clean every couple days,” Tommy says faintly.

“Christine is the best,” Jon agrees, getting comfortable on the couch in his TommyJohns and nothing else. He’s not much of an exhibitionist. Not as much as Tommy is, anyway, but it is nice — _gratifying_ — knowing that Tommy can’t keep his eyes away. 

“Are you just going to sit there?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” 

Jon can see the way Tommy’s fingers have already gone to the cuffs of his shirt, working the buttons at his wrists, even if he’s not unbuttoning them quite yet. 

“You know,” he says, letting one of his hands press to his belly. The softness across his abdomen is still startling, too, but as the weeks go by it becomes more comforting than anything. Soon, the baby will be more than a collection of cells the size of a handful of pumpkin seeds. Soon, everything will be different. 

“What?” Tommy asks, finally taking the plunge and throwing himself onto the couch a few inches away. He butts his head against Jon’s shoulder, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his skin. 

“I can tell when you want something,” Jon says. It’s not always true, but every day he tries to get better. Every day he _wants_ to, and that has to count for something. 

“Yeah, I know,” Tommy says, his face still muffled against Jon’s shoulder. He’s leaving smaller, nipping kisses against Jon’s skin, little bites that won’t bruise or purple, but still sting, slightly, the scrape of his teeth a steadying, grounding point of focus. 

“You could also just tell me, so I wouldn’t have to guess,” Jon tries, groaning as Tommy shifts closer, moving his mouth to the curve of Jon’s neck, and the shell of his ear. Their fingers tangle together against Jon’s belly, and he feels more than hears the sharp intake of Tommy’s breath. 

“Fine,” he whispers, the sound mostly leached out of his voice. “I want you. You know that. I always want you.” 

He knocks their hands together again, and maybe it’s just Jon’s romantic, sappy brain, but when their wedding bands clink together, he can make out a tiny plink of a sound, the noise whispering in the cool stillness of the room. 

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Jon says, tightening his hands when Tommy groans and tries to pull away.

“ _Sweet_ heart,” he whines, and from how his face is slotted against Jon’s shoulder, Jon can feel how hot his cheeks are, all the furious color rushing back in, making his desires known. 

“Babe,” Jon says, twisting so that he can run the fingers of his free hand through the short hairs at the back of Tommy’s neck. “You gotta tell me what you want so that I can give it to you.”

“I want you,” Tommy repeats.

The doorbell goes, but Tommy doesn’t move for a sec, staying with his head tucked tightly against Jon’s neck for the ten seconds between one chime and the next. He’s up with his next whooshing exhale, positioning himself so that he’s blocking the view of Jon on the couch with his body, and exchanging pleasantries. Jon means to listen, he does, but the couch is comfortable and his dick is hard, and Tommy is soft spoken when he wants to be.

“Please, god, tell me you’re not asleep,” Tommy says a little while later. “Not after all that.” 

Jon cracks one of his eyes open and flashes a smile. “Not asleep. Put the food in the fridge and come back to me.”

“You’re not hungry?” Tommy asks. He’s looking down at the paper sacks in his hands and licks his lips. “Baby, we can talk about this anytime. You have to eat.”

“I had four sandwiches and a bowl of ramen today,” Jon cuts him off. “I mean, I’m hungry, but it’ll keep. Put the food away, Tom.”

Tommy goes, and if Jon focuses on it he can hear the sounds he makes in the kitchen, familiar and methodical. He’s back in seconds, under a minute, cheeks flushed red again, his hands dangling idly by his sides.

“You know,” he says. “This isn’t how I thought this was going to go.”

Jon grins at him, patting the space beside him again. “How were you expecting it to go?”

“Much less embarrassing, for one,” Tommy says, rolling his eyes. “I always imagined I’d be a good, uh. A better provider. Less needy. You guys always — fuck. I have terrible self control, Jon. Always have.” 

“What are you talking about,” Jon says, sitting up faster than he means to. Their heads nearly bang together. “You want to get fucked by your husband because you like getting fucked. It doesn’t make you weaker. It just means you like getting fucked.” 

Tommy swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing. “It’s not, uh. Weakness is not exactly what I’m worried about here.”

He always looks young, but with his eyes squeezed shut and his cheeks this hazy red, he could be ten, fifteen years younger. Fuck, Jon wants to kiss him everywhere.

“I do like it,” Tommy admits, soft. “I _love_ it. You know I do, but it’s more, like. I shouldn’t be begging you for this kind of thing right now. This is why we have vibrators or, or, plugs, even. So, it should be easier, but it’s not, because, it’s not about the fullness, it’s because I want you. It’s always just you. Pregnant. Not pregnant. It’s you.”

“Okay,” Jon agrees. “So let me take care of you, huh? Let me, Tom.”

“Yeah.” Tommy nods, standing to make quick work of his shirt, unbuttoning his pants and shoving them hastily down his thighs. He leans over the arm of their couch, face pressed to his crossed arms. 

“You want to take these off?” Jon asks, letting his fingertips skate down the knobs of Tommy’s spine. They shiver in time, and then again when Tommy shakes his head. 

He pulls his face away from his arms and says, “Please, just. I’ve wanted this all day. Being cooped up on all those Skype calls was hell.”

“Hell,” Jon says, sweeping his thumbs along Tommy’s back, over the wings of his shoulders and back down to the tapered ridges of his slim hips. “Why?”

Tommy groans. “Fuck, okay, I hate it when we’re not together for most of the day. I know that’s dumb. I know we need our space, and that it’s not normal for us to spend all day together and then all night together, and still find interesting shit to talk about to ‘keep our relationship’ alive or — but, the thing is. Sprog is going to be here sooner than later, and I. I’m fucking psyched to be a dad, Jon. I am. I can’t wait. But when he gets here, it’s not going to be the same, and I am fucking selfish, okay, and I want every second of your time that you want to give me.” 

“I want to give it all to you,” Jon says. It’s the truest thing he knows. “You just have to let me, okay?”

Tommy nods. “Okay,” he says. “Please.”

They keep travel bottles of lube in almost every room of the house, thank god, so it’s not too much of a strain to grab the one they have under the couch cushions and thankfully out of Leo’s reach. 

“We’re almost out,” Jon says, leaning forward to press twin kisses to Tommy’s shoulder blades. He kisses each of his favorite moles. He kisses the exposed, pale undersides of Tommy’s forearms. “Love you,” he says.

“I,” Tommy gasps, voice wet. “Yeah. Me too.” 

Jon uncaps the lube, dripping it onto his fingers and warming it as much as he can. “Start with one or two?” he asks. He hears it when Tommy swallows, can just make out the curve of his cheek from this vantage point. 

“Two, please,” he says, voice cracking. “Please, sweetheart.” 

“You got it,” Jon says, scooting back far enough for a moment so that he can press another kiss to the curve of Tommy’s ass. 

He presses the tips of his fingers to the entrance of Tommy’s body, gritting his teeth at the feel of all that tight heat slowly allowing him inside. 

“Fuck, you’re incredible,” he breathes, grinning when Tommy laughs, feeling it from where they’re joined rather than hearing the sound.

“Shut up,” Tommy says eventually. “Please. More. Will you?”

Jon does, starting to move his hand in a smooth, steady rhythm. He times the thrust of his fingers with the pace of Tommy’s breathing, and tries to regulate his own to match. It’s easy to lose time this way, touching all the secret parts of Tommy that he’s so desperately grateful to reach. 

“Three?” Tommy asks. “Can you. Come on. Are you trying to drive me nuts?”

Jon muffles a laugh, and says, “I’m trying not to hurt you.”

“Like you could,” Tommy volleys back, trying to look over his shoulder. “Come on. Come on. I want it. _Please_.”

“Okay,” Jon agrees. “Going for three.”

“Go for your dick,” Tommy grunts, and Jon — it’s not that they don’t laugh a lot in bed together. They laugh all the time. There was one night in Iowa — laughs. Can’t help it. Tommy laughs too, his body a vice grip on Jon’s fingers. 

Jon’s heart squeezes so tight in his chest it feels like his body can’t contain it. 

“Tommy,” he whispers, slowing his movements so he can move out his hand and add another finger. 

“I don’t,” Tommy groans, and they both freeze. “Your dick is big, okay. I know it’s bigger than two fingers, Jon. It’s bigger than three fingers. I’m ready anyway. Please don’t keep me waiting any longer. I can’t. I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

Jon wants to argue. It’s been a while since they’ve done this. Too long, considering how badly Tommy seems to want it. He doesn’t want to rush, but also… also, Tommy knows his body better than Jon could ever even hope to.

“Yeah,” he says, smoothing his free hand down along Tommy’s spine again. “Okay, breathe deep for me, okay?”

“Okay,” Tommy agrees. 

They both hiss as Jon moves his fingers. The snick of the lube cap is the only sound in the room outside of their breathing, and Jon closes his eyes for a second, almost too overwhelmed by the sight, Tommy stretched out and keening, just for him. 

“So I’m just going to…” Jon says, dripping lube down onto his dick and slicking himself up. 

“Please,” Tommy groans, desperate in a way he almost never is, and that’s it. That’s _it_. 

Jon leans forward, pushing up on his toes to get a better angle, holding himself with one hand and Tommy’s hip with the other. 

“Okay,” he says. A plea. “Okay, okay, okay, okay.” Tommy’s body had been incredible against his fingers, but pressing the blunt head of his dick against all that tight, overwhelming heat is another thing entirely. “Fuck.”

“Jon?”

Jon grits his teeth and groans, “I’m here. I’m. Trying.” 

He thrusts forward, a slow, steady push until he’s fully sheathed inside Tommy’s body, their hips fully flush against each other. 

“Fuck,” Tommy mumbles, shifting his hips back. “Feels nice.”

“Nice?” Jon asks, and then laughs again, impossibly. “Really?”

“This is what I wanted,” Tommy says. “This is all I ever want.” 

Jon pulls back slightly, and then snaps his hips forward, finding another slow, easy rhythm that works for them both. The thing is, Tommy is so tight. He’s hot and overwhelming. He’s gasping, too, these tiny, hitching noises in the back of his throat that Jon wants to chase for the rest of his life.

“Can you shift up a bit, baby?” Jon asks, and Tommy shakes his head, grunting when the movement makes their bodies grind together. 

“Jon,” he whines, breathing heavily. “Jon, I’m so close. Fuck.” 

“I want to get you there,” Jon says, stretching so that his entire front is pressed to Tommy’s back, keeping his hips working in precise, shallow thrusts. He spits in his clean hand, moving it along the curve of Tommy’s hip and finally curling it around his dick. He’s leaking, already slick with pre-come, and he gasps again, loudly, when Jon thumbs the slit, pressing down with light fingers. “How close are you?”

“So fucking close,” Tommy whispers. 

Jon shoves forward again, tightening his grip and stroking down, once, twice, and then dropping his head to the meat of Tommy’s shoulder where he bites down as hard as he can without breaking the skin. 

Tommy is silent as he comes. The only indication is the mess on Jon’s fingers and his halted, hitching breath. 

“You okay?” Jon asks. “Should I pull out?”

“Just fuck me, okay?” Tommy says, pushing his hips back and squeezing. “Please, just. Do it. Come for me.” 

“I will,” Jon moans nonsensically, dropping his head to Tommy’s neck again and breathing him in. He presses his lips to Tommy’s sweaty, salty skin and says, “I am. Fuck, Tommy.” 

“Fuck,” Tommy agrees, face smushed almost entirely into the cushions.

Eventually, Jon will have to move. His calves are screaming in protest from being crouched for so long. His back still hurts. He can’t stop smiling.


End file.
